


Beg for It

by The_Pugnisher



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Ignoring Safe Words, M/M, Masturbation, Non-consenual caging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6580228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Pugnisher/pseuds/The_Pugnisher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John talks Sherlock into a little bondage after the detective proves he can't handle being alone by himself for too long. John takes matters into his own hands, risking his relationship, to put Sherlock on the defensive AND onto the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head during a 221B Con panel, and I almost laughed out loud at the thought. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> FINISHED!

He threw his head back, the dark curls crushed against the covers in a tangled, sweaty mess. His toes curled, his boney back arched, his body stretched taut to the point where it was a mix of pain and pleasure. A low moan escaped his lips. The rising wall of pressure built to the point where he knew that it would consume him if he didn’t release it. So, he did. 

He screamed and hot cum spattered his smooth, hairless chest. 

“Sherlock?” John asked from the other room, his tone sounded as if he was concerned. 

Sherlock’s eyes popped open as the bedroom door opened; lost in the throes of his orgasm he missed John's arrival in the flat. John stood in the doorway, surprise in his eyes to find his friend naked, on the bed, and covered in cum. Sherlock stared at the ceiling. John wondered if it was because Sherlock _could not_ or _would not_ look at him. 

“Oh,” John stammered, and he blushed; he cursed his embarrassment. Sherlock remained silent. Guilt sealed his lips, but nothing else indicated his discomfort. He nonchalantly crossed his arms to cover his spent member, and smeared cum across his chest and abdomen with a slickened sound. 

“Hello, John,” the naked man finally managed to say, his voice calm and even dignified. John was impressed with the implacability that Sherlock could put forth, even though he shouldn’t be surprised anymore. 

“Again?” John asked with a sigh. He stuck his head out and leaned forward with the question. Sherlock understood the body language to mean that the doctor was ready to fight if it came to it.

“Unfortunately,” the cum-soaked man conceded. 

“I’ve been horny since you sent me that text this morning, but you couldn’t wait for me to get home?”

“It should only have taken you twenty minutes to get home after you got off work. You took too long.”

“I could have had to wait for a crosswalk light, you know?”

“I took that into account. I calculated your route with all of the longest possibilities. You were still late.” 

“I went to buy you some wine. I thought you might appreciate it.”

“Oh, well, “Sherlock said, licking his lips, “I’m afraid you didn’t think that through.”

“I was thinking of you. Apparently you did the same. I won’t make that mistake next time.”

“A lesson well learned, John,” Sherlock said with finality. John turned and shut the door leaving Sherlock to clean himself off. 

*********************************************

John sat in his chair later that night with his computer in his lap. He finished his blog post, and, after, turned to a few social media sites to pass the time. His mind plodded along. He barely reacted to the pictures of cute kittens, spastic dogs, and pet-shaming extravaganzas. He kept flitting back to the texts from that morning. They had been plays on some of the first texts he had received from Sherlock: 

_Baker Street. You’ll come at once if convenient._

_If inconvenient, you’ll come anyway._

_Could be hot._

It was goofy, and confusing. Sherlock could be both insightful and ignorant all at the same time. 

Sherlock sent him a the series of texts at ten that morning. Evidently, he wanted sex which was a rare occasion by itself, but the texts made it better. Sherlock's attempted stab at dirty talk both amused and aroused. John’s day flew by and crawled at a snail’s pace, all at the same time. The text was hot. It was spontaneous and adventurous and sweet. Sherlock wrote the texts remembering, word for word, their first exchanges. Then, the idiot went and jacked off instead of waiting for John to reciprocate. Sherlock knew the exact amount of time it would take for John to walk from the office to the apartment, but it slipped his mind that John might try to do something to make things more intimate and romantic. Some days, it felt that Sherlock’s paradoxical insights were random. Other days, it felt particularly like he used his insights spitefully. Sherlock knew, he had to have known, that John would make a pit stop for wine, but he refused to wait. 

John’s internet searches went from innocent pet pics to more sexually explicit pictures of men. Thank god for Tumblr. He could search the NSFW tag and browse for porn. Obviously, he was horny. Even if Sherlock had already finished, he had not. Skinny men with sharp cheeks and broad shoulders flooded his screen. He followed user after user, and found himself on dark blogs where young men were tied up, laid prostrate, and used for pleasure. John glanced up at the door, then at his watch. Sherlock left an hour before, and Ms. Hudson’s near nightly visit occurred shortly after that, where she complained that they needed to take better care of themselves, that they should search Sherlock's hiding places for drugs, and that, once again, she was not their house keeper when John asked if she would mind picking up some tea the next time she went to the grocery. He unzipped and pulled down his pants for easy access to his cock. He pulled it a few times, and it responded rapidly. He scrolled through picture after picture, each one unique in the bindings being used. With each picture his cock hardened and his hand moved faster. Then he landed on a picture of a thin, dark haired, man with a sharp chin tied spread eagle to a bed. John studied this photo. It reminded him of his arsehole of a lover, and he grinned. His breathing sped up, his jerking hand movements quickened even more. He twisted his hips in enjoyment. Then he saw the caption, “He won’t be released until he begs for it.” John lost it. 

With a loud moan, and a spasm that rocked his body, he came. He almost dropped his computer, but that hardly worried him. His mind raced with possibilities, and all of them made him smile. He wiped cum from his hand onto the leg of his pants, and then he moved the computer aside after erasing the history and exiting the browser. He walked to the bedroom with his head buzzing. He simply had to wait for the next horny text, and then he would make Sherlock beg for it. First, however, he needed to run out to a specialty shop to make a purchase. He changed pants, threw on a tee, washed his hands, and then rushed out the door. He had an hour before Sherlock returned, and he needed to get the item and hide it in the flat before then.


	2. Beg for It: The Doctor is in the House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to persuade Sherlock to experiment with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2. 
> 
> I posted this because I felt like part 1 did not give enough to satisfy or incite. :P

Three days later, Mr. Fenton, an elderly man with a roughly wrinkled face, sat on the examination room table. The over-sized jacket swallowed the man whole, and his pants were held up by a belt that the man had cut a hole into far beyond what was acceptable. He smiled up at the door when John walked through the door. 

“Morning, Daniel,” John said, his hand extended to the elderly man. When they shook hands he glanced around. 

“Morning, Doctor,” Fenton replied in a raspy voice.

“I see the wife isn’t here, is she feeling alright?”

“She’s in silent protest,” the old man answered with a little laugh.

“What for?” John asked looking over the notes Miss Asher had taken. 

He raised a bruised, saggy hand to his face and whispered conspiratorially, “She thinks I’m here to see the nurses.”

“Are you?” John asked, and the old man nodded his head and laughed breathlessly. “I suppose I can’t blame you if you were coming here just for that though, eh?”

“No!” Fenton replied shaking his head, “You’ve got pretty girls in reception, and the nurses.”

“Careful. You talk like that and your wife will make sure you find a new doctor.”

“She would, wouldn’t she?” Another breathless chuckle, but this time the old man winked and added, “Not to worry. You keep these girls busy, don’t you?”  
Watson’s eyes widened briefly. He cleared his throat, and nodded his head awkwardly a few times while he purposefully avoided eye contact. The phone in his pocket vibrated, and he pulled it out saying,

“What brings you in today?”

“Well, it’s hurts to pee now. I thought it might be the new meds. Is it?”

John glanced at the phones display. Sherlock’s name glowed. He opened the message, saying, “It could be the meds. Any other side effects? Loss of appetite? Trouble sleeping?”

“No more than usual,” was the prompt reply. The message read: _Case closed. Interested in the details? For your blog, of course._ John replied: _Working. Later._ Then, he looked back up at the patient. 

“We can reduce the dose, but I think that we should also take a look at your water intake.” 

“Oooh,” Mr. Fenton replied, closing his eyes and looking like he was in pain, “Don’t say that Doc.”

“Why not?” Another message from Sherlock: _Over victory sex? Perhaps?_ John smiled, and put his phone away.

“The wife will have a field day. She’ll holler ‘I told you, so!’”

“At least she’ll stop nagging about the girls, right?”

“If only!” Mr. Fenton barked into a mix of rasping laughter and wheezing cough.

*******************************************

“Thank you again,” John said to Mr. Fenton as he left shortly after with a prescription for a lower dosage, a requirement of 90 ounces of water every day for the next week, and a smile on his face for the nurses. Jackie stepped into the examination room with another patient chart.

“You’ve got Mr. Cobb in exam room 4,” she said, but Watson brushed past her. Jackie followed after him, hot on his heels. 

“I’m sorry, Jackie. I have an emergency to take care of. Would you ask Dr. Michels to take the patient?”

“You’re leaving? Now?”

“Yes, well, that’s normally the definition of emergency.”

“Is this about him again?” 

“Oh, please Jackie, don’t start on this again,” John sighed. He stepped into his office, and removed his lab coat. He busied himself gathering his completed paperwork while Jackie glared at him from the doorway. Sherlock and Jackie were not friends, not even in the most perverted or antiquated sense of the word. 

“You are supposed to be here working with patients. You aren’t paid to run around playing detective with a know-it-all.”

“I think that’s enough,” was the curt reply. He knew she was right. He was foregoing his patients to rush off to a sex shop to buy ropes to tie Sherlock up, but he really needed to do this. Sherlock needed a lesson, and John wanted to give it to him. John straightened up, grabbed his light jacket, and shooed Jackie out of the office. “I know you don’t like him. And, he can be… difficult. But, he is… a very good man. Probably the best man I know, and I’ve known soldiers. However, I have a personal matter to attend to, privately, without Sherlock or yourself. So, if you’ll pass Mr… I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten his name… Onto Michels, I’d appreciate it.”

"Cobb," she said sarcastically, and John fixed her with an impatient and expectant stare. Jackie straightened her scrubs, and nodded demurely, “Yes, sir.”

“Thanks. I’m off.”

******************************************

John burst into the flat with a bag in his hand, a smile on his face, and a plan to put into motion. Sherlock sat on the chair by the fireplace his violin tucked under his chin, and looked up; the last played note still hummed in the air. John thought he could see the hint of surprise on the detective’s face. Sherlock glanced at the watch on his wrist, “You’re earlier than expected.”

“If I weren’t, I’m sure you’d already be jacking off.”

“I did consider it, but I needed the violin to help me think. What’s in the bag?”

“I went to a specialty shop, and bought a couple of things to try out tonight.”

John watched Sherlock the corner of his eye as he moved around the kitchen pouring two glasses of wine. He wasn’t sure how the other man would react to being asked to be tied up during sex. Now that he was fairly close to asking, things seemed like they might blow up in his face. Sherlock could laugh at him, mock him, catch on to the plot, or worse yet… might turn things around on him. He blew a sigh, shrugged his shoulders, and then picked up the glasses.

Sherlock studied him as he crossed the room, and John wondered if he had already been figured out. As he neared the slender, handsome detective, he pulled the violin away from his neck and set it propped against the side of the chair.

“Something different?” the detective asked, rolling the words around his tongue like a cough drop. He took the proffered glass of wine. He stared at it for a minute, and then asked, “Is it bad enough that you have to give me wine before you ask?”

“It’s not bad," John stammered, then conceded Well, not that bad.”

“This sounds terribly romantic.”

“You said yourself that you need to have some help thinking. I’ve been told this is very therapeutic.”

“By whom?”

“People on the internet.”

“And we trust them now, do we?” 

"You're on the internet, Sherlock."

"Yes, and so are you, John."

“C’mon, Sherlock. All I want to do is tie you up a little bit. I saw a really good picture of this guy the other day, he was all tied up. He reminded me of you, and I’ve been picturing you tied up every time I close my eyes.”

John sat on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. They sipped their wine, nearly in unison, while Sherlock considered the proposal. Sherlock’s face remained stoic, but John could feel the calculations and suppositions pulsing from the other man’s thoughts. He looked down and bit his lip; he hoped he had not just spent all that money on useless restraints. 

“Is this because I came before you last time?”

“Sorta, yeah,” John answered. He paused, sipped his wine, and then corrected the other man, "Actually, you came without me."

“Alright, fine. But, if I don’t like being tied up, we stop.”

“We could create a safe word!” John cried, excited by his knowledge on the topic.

“Safe word? What are doing? Getting into BDSM?”

“Well, in a way. It’s a little exciting.”

Sherlock glanced down at John’s crotch, could see his member engorging, and remarked straight-faced, “I can see that.”

“OH! I’ve got it.”

“I cannot wait to hear this.”

“If you think it’s not for you or you aren’t comfortable, you can say: Anderson’s right.”

“I thought the point of the safe word was that I would actually use it.”

“Well, I’m hoping that you’ll like it, and won’t use it,” John whispered. He stood up and set the wine cup down. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, then again just to the side of his lips, and a third time their lips met. Sherlock leaned forward, his hand snaking around John’s head, and holding them together. Sherlock’s pointed tongue darted into John’s mouth, and the taste of red wine blossomed into the flavor of seduction. Sherlock broke away. 

“Alright, I’ll agree to be tied up. My safe word though, will be anaphylaxis.”

“Why?” 

“Because I’ll be shocked if I use it.”


	3. Beg for It: Click Click Went the Little Lock One Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated in the bed room. *fans self*

John steered Sherlock through the bedroom door: their arms entangled, their knees bumping against each other awkwardly, their lips locked, then breaking away, then locked again after deep breaths, their hands pushing hems and caressing skin. John caught Sherlock’s shirt hem as they bumped against the bed. Within seconds the shirt was unbuttoned and hanging loosely on the other man’s slim body. They locked eyes and John could see the red irritation around Sherlock’s mouth from their grating beards. John pushed back away from Sherlock; his hands planted on the other man’s chest. He ran his hands up the smooth, hairless pecs, and caressed the tiny pert nipples with the rough palm of his hands. Then, he moved his hands up over Sherlock’s shoulders to remove Sherlock’s button down shirt by sliding his hands down the thin, muscular arms. Sherlock’s shirt fell to the ground. His pale skin covered in the tightened, raised bumps of gooseflesh. John’s touch was electric, and Sherlock’s body responded with ease to the familiar tenderness. 

They kissed again. Sherlock broke away this time. His breath was labored from the intensity. He met John’s eyes and a shy smile played at his lips. John licked his lips, and grinned up; a hand still planted on Sherlock’s chest. Their thighs, hips, and abdomens pressed tightly together.

“Get on the bed,” John whispered, and then added, “I’ve got to go grab the bag of restraints.”

John raced out of the room, grabbed the bag, and raced back to the room. He peeked in, and Sherlock lay on the bed propped up against the head board. His eyes were focused on the door, so when John looked in their eyes met. Sherlock had unbuckled his pants. One hand rubbed absently at his chest, but the other was thrust into his pants rubbing sensuously over his hardening cock. 

“Get your hand out of your pants,” John ordered, stepping into the room. He pulled a pair of restraints from the bag, and crawled onto the bed. He moved up the bed, pulled Sherlock’s hand away from his crotch, and then straddled Sherlock’s hips. “You’re only going to make it worse.”

“John, if you didn’t have pants on, I’m sure that I’d already be fucking you.”

“You hardly ever fuck me. Usually that’s my job.”

“Well, you feel good right where you are,” Sherlock replied. His hips started to grind forcing his hard dick to rub at the seat of John’s pants. John concentrated on his task, ignoring Sherlock’s advances to the best of his ability. He was unable, however, to control his own hips, and soon found himself grinding Sherlock in a similar rhythm. 

“Sherlock!” John swore, “You aren’t helping.”

“I think I’m helping more than you think. It’s a good thing I know how to sew. The seam at the crotch of your pants looks like it’s about to burst.”

“Why do you know how to sew?” John asked incredulously.

“I once solved a case based entirely on recognizing individual sewing techniques.”  
John grudgingly removed himself from Sherlock’s wriggling hips. He ran his dry rough hands up Sherlock’s silky smooth arms and attached one restraint to a bed post, quickly bounced over Sherlock back to the other side of the bed and repeated the sensual arm caressing to attach the other. Sherlock watched him with a satisfied smile on his lips. John paused to look at him for a minute after grabbing his left arm, and thought that he had never seen the man so relaxed. John almost felt bad that that relaxation would not last for long. 

Sherlock was stretched between the two posts, but he had just enough slack to wriggle maybe two inches back and forth. The straps wrapped firmly around the wrist, so he could not hope to undo them with one hand. They were perfect for what John wanted to do. He leaned over the helpless man, kissed, then nibbled at his neck. Sherlock’s lips brushed John’s ear. Now, he was in control. He grabbed Sherlock’s head, pushed back the dark curls, and kissed his lips lightly. Sherlock tried to lean into the kiss, but John held his head down with his hands. 

“No,” John whispered. He lifted himself off of Sherlock, and scooted down the bed; his hand trailed over Sherlock’s slim torso. He saw the gooseflesh rise and ripple away from his hand, and had to repeat the action, but this time he ran his stubble-laden chin over the slender man’s chest then stuck a tongue out to smooth out the irritation. He nipped and nibbled his way down Sherlock’s lanky body until he arrived at the waist of the unbuttoned pants. He didn’t want to waste time, so John slipped his fingers into the tight, maroon brief trunks, and pulled them and Sherlock’s pants down. It was an awkward maneuver, and it did not work as planned since John still sat between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock laughed, and John blushed. 

“Do you need a hand John?”

“No!” John griped.

“Fantastic because I not in any position to help,” was the dry response. 

John’s face deepened in red, but he got off of the bed to finish the project. He grabbed the bottom hems of Sherlock’s slacks, and pulled them down and off. Sherlock’s long, pale body on top of the dark covers stirred John’s appetite, but he needed to work first. John reached down into the bag to pull out two more restraints. He slipped them over the posts at the foot of the bed. He ran a hand up one of Sherlock’s calves, tucked his hand under, and lifted it to slip the restraint around his ankle. He repeated his movements with the other leg. Sherlock lay spread-eagled on the bed, and John wanted nothing more than to dive on top of Sherlock and fuck himself raw; his mouth watered for it, but it couldn’t happen.

“Alright, you wait here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

“You sure? I thought I could step out off for a smoke.”

“Good luck,” John laughed. Sherlock, even when tied hand and foot to a bed, still exuded a confidence that floored the soldier. If the intelligence agencies could bottle Sherlock’s calm, they would have the perfect super soldier. 

John went into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. His heart faced. He was about to cross a line; a big line. He knew from the Tumblr’s he sifted through that what he was about to do to Sherlock was completely unethical, unnerving, and for many would paint him as a form of rapist. He knew that Sherlock would be furious, but something inside told John it needed to be done. He blew air out of his mouth in a huff. He went over to the drawer full of odds and ends, and pulled it open. There, among an assortment of batteries, old phone chargers, a stack of random recipes, a receipt, and a pair of empty lighters sat the other toy that he had purchased the night Sherlock had masterbated without him. He picked it up and rolled it between his hands. He waited for ten minutes letting Sherlock’s excitement wan before going back into the room.

“Close your eyes Sherlock,” John said quietly from the door. Sherlock looked up from his position on the bed. He smiled slyly and complied.

“You know, this is rather relaxing. I might ask you to do this regularly; especially when we are on the case.”

Sherlock could feel John slide onto the bed, and straddle his body again. He realized that John was still clothed, which was strange, but nothing was really normal about that night. He felt John softly touch his cock, as if he were afraid of awakening it.

“It’s not a snake it won’t bite you, John,” Sherlock said with a laugh, but then the laugh died in his throat. He felt something cold and metallic encircle his cock. Sherlock was not familiar with the sensation, but it seemed like John was fitting his cock and balls with something. Sherlock’s mind raced, and when he came up with the answer that solved the riddle he heard a click. That click sent a shiver through Sherlock’s body, and he snapped. 

John, after snapping the lock shut on the chastity cage, quickly hopped off of Sherlock’s bucking body. Sherlock started yelling, but John was not sure what language Sherlock was speaking. 

“I’ll be going out for a bit,” John yelled in a panic, and then quickly strode into the other room. He could not stay here while the other man reacted, and he also had a plan to put into motion. Once in the open area of the flat, John realized that Sherlock had been yelling the safe word: anaphylaxis. John felt like shit, but he could not undo it now. Sherlock’s yells quickly quieted. His natural instinct to yell, and the equally natural instinct to protect himself kicked in. 

Sherlock, doubly bound, listened as John strode around the other room. He counted the steps John took and knew that he had gone to the desk. He heard a drawer open with a squeak, paper flutter, the scratching sound of a pen, a slight clatter, more scratching of a pen nib, and another paper flutter. Then, moments later, John strode toward the front door leaving Sherlock spread-eagled on the bed with his cock tightly caged and blue-balls on the way. He heard a mumbled conversation happening at the bottom of the stairs between John’s low tenor and Hudson’s fluctuating alto. Then, the front door to 221 Baker Street opened and closed. Sherlock was left in silence for the few hours that John was out on the street.  
Sherlock laid there. He pulled, independently, at each of the restraints, but found no weaknesses there. He wanted to yell and scream, but instead he dropped into his mind palace. He moved down the hall and into the room where his mental version of John resided. He entered the room, and a naked John sat in his special chair with his legs crossed coyly and a sly smile on his lips. Sherlock frowned. He moved into the room, and John’s doe eyes followed him seductively. 

“Why did you do that?”

“You know why, Sherlock,” John teased.

“I don’t see the correlation. John, explain it to me.”

“Don’t be a tit,” Sherlock’s imagined version of John said. 

Sherlock breathed a moment, and thought.

“You placed a cock cage on me because you came home late.”

“Wrong!” John called out.

“Fine, you placed me in a cock cage on me because I came without you.”

“Much closer. Is this how you normally feel while I try to guess at the facts you already know? No wonder you enjoy it. It’s amusing to see you struggle.”

“Alright, you win,” Sherlock growled with bared teeth. “You placed a cock cage on me because instead of waiting for you, like I should, I masterbated and I came without you. Then, I left you to your own devices instead of helping you to orgasm… like…I should.”

“Very good,” John congratulated.

“We both know I’m a terrible boyfriend, John, so what’s different about tonight?”

“You missed something.” 

“John, you are insufferable.”

“I’m also a figment of your imagination, so it’s your fault.”

Sherlock circled around the seated John, unwilling to continue the simulation. He sighed, and shook his head. Sadly the mind-John was right.

“What did I miss?”

“You teased me.”

“What?” Sherlock asked confused.

“You text me three times. You were sweet… but then I got home and you completely ruined it.”

“Like I always do John,” Sherlock drawled in a bored manner.

“No Sherlock, this was different.”

“How?!” 

“Because you started it, Sherlock.”

He knew it was true. Normally, when they decided to have sex, John initiated. He toyed with Sherlock in order to get the detective in the mood. It was something Sherlock adored in the soldier because he was bullheaded and insistent about it. He had, two days ago, initiated the interaction. Why had he done that? What possessed him? He never, in any of his conquests, started the experience. He wanted to be pursued, much like her pursued the criminals and murderers he was hired to find. 

“How do you feel,” his naked lover asked without looking at him.

Sherlock turned his eye inward for a moment, then pursed his lips in annoyance.

“You’re enjoying this,” John whispered, but he no longer sat in the chair. He stood behind Sherlock, his hands planted on the detectives hips and his mouth at the dark haired man’s ear. Sherlock tucked his head into John’s mouth, and then…  
Sherlock emerged from the mind palace, and he opened his eyes for a moment before closing them again. His cock grew and squeezed painfully against the steel encasing his cock. He understood, innately, that the time it had taken him to run through the conundrum in his head had been a tenth of what it normally took. He smiled to himself because apparently bondage did work for him. His conflicted emotions, anger at being caged and enjoyment of this new found clarity, eased him into a soothing meditation filled with satisfying scenarios. 

***************************************

“Sherlock,” John said quietly from the doorway. 

Sherlock’s eyes shot open. Even with the chastity cage locked on, being tied down turned out to be extremely relaxing. He had fallen asleep running simulations and theorems of killing John and getting away with the murder. After the first hundred or so, it grew boring. So, he’d switched to disappearing John for months of torture instead.

“John, anaphylaxis,” Sherlock said slowly, dangerously, and evenly. He enjoyed the setup, but he could not allow John to know that.

“Not yet, Sherlock. I want to make the rules clear.”

“Rules?” Sherlock hissed, then, “You strapped me down, and caged me when I was helpless.”

“Yes, I did. But, I don’t have the key. So, you can’t murder me until you find it.”

“I’ll have it in less than an hour.”

“Fair enough, but…” John hesitated. He was not sure of how to proceed. He had practiced this speech for an hour, but it still fell to pieces saying it aloud. He swallowed his nerves and continued, “I would suggest waiting until you’ve found the key to react. I’ve done a fairly good job of hiding it.”

“And why should I,” Sherlock asked pointedly.

“It’s a game, Sherlock. A wager.”

“A wager?”

“You find the key, and I’ll let you lock me up for as long as you would like. If you don’t find it, I’m not giving it back…Until you beg for it.”

Sherlock stared up at John. He was extremely impressed with him. This was probably more exciting than Sherlock could have hoped for. First being tied up, then caged, and then challenged. The only downside was that the cage pained him at the moment because the bars were squeezing against his hardening dick. He loved a good game, John knew that. This game had the added benefit of a not so friendly bet. He could not allow John to know how exciting this was.

“It seems I have no choice, but to accept the case. Would you release me?” Sherlock asked his tone calculatedly bland and neutral. 

John walked into the room. With four deft movements, the restraints fell away. Sherlock pulled his arms and legs in. His muscles rippled with spasms from being splayed out for so long. John lucked out in that regard because Sherlock might not have been able to resist tackling him and throwing a few punches. 

“Start in the morning, Sherlock,” John whispered as he removed his clothes. He lay down next to the naked Sherlock who turned away from him. John could not blame him for being irritated. He considered trying to wrap his arm around the slender man in bed beside him, but he feared Sherlock might leave the bed altogether. Within a few minutes John was asleep; a soft snore escaped him. His dreams, however, refused to let his sleep be peaceful. He dreamed of the fallout from his decision to lock the detective’s cock away, of screaming matches and silent treatments, of disappointment and hatefulness, of Sherlock leaving.

As soon as John fell asleep, Sherlock slid out of bed. He padded to the closet and grabbed a robe. The plush maroon robe felt amazingly soft, but his muscles complained painfully when he stretched to put it on. A tiny unwanted moan escaped his thin lips. He glanced at the bed and hoped that the good doctor would stay asleep. 

Moments later, Sherlock was at the study desk. He studied it within the blink of an eye. A new stack of papers sat on the top of the desk, the envelopes were no longer evened out, two pens thrown haphazardly on top of the desk seemed sad and abandoned. A flash of facts ran through his mind. He connected the dots. John had come to the desk, grabbed a handful of papers, he grabbed a pen, the pen refused to work, he shook it, scribbled harder, threw the pen down, grabbed another, and wrote a note. Sherlock grabbed a pencil from the container, and used it to lightly dust the top page of the stack of papers. The graphite sketching revealed the negative imprint from the note that had been written on top of it. 

Hold on to this for me. If Sherlock comes looking, hand it over. – John

A smile crossed Sherlock’s face, but he wasn’t done just yet. He pulled open the drawers. He started with the left, but it was not that one. He opened the one on the right, but it was not that one either. He opened the shallow middle drawer, and heard the distinctive squeak. He scanned the contents of the drawer. A set of stamps with one stamp missing meant that the letter was local. He closed the drawer. He paused, and opened the drawer again. The address book was open and the page it was open to made him groan in irritation. Sherlock considered the surrounding area, and traced the path John would have taken to the mail drop. Sherlock went to the chair where he had left his phone earlier in the evening. He checked the times the mail drop picked up, and knew that it was already too late. The mail person had already emptied the box. The letter would mail, and it would arrive by… Sherlock groaned again. Two days. 

He walked slowly back to the bedroom. He stood in the door for a moment and considered the sleeping soldier waiting in his bed; a brave, stupid, beautiful, irritating man. The logic behind John’s actions stood solidly against Sherlock. He admitted, if grudgingly, that he could have waited a few more minutes for John. He also admitted that this was not the first, nor the tenth, nor the hundredth time that he had played without waiting for the doctor to ‘make a house call’. John’s reaction screamed extreme, but it shined brilliantly. Sherlock reached down under the robe and grabbed the cage that curled tightly around his member. The tiny little lock taunted him. Of course there were ways to get around the lock, including picking it, but that went against Sherlock’s nature. John set up the stakes, laid the game, and invited him. He could not refuse. Mentally he applauded John. Physically he exuded anger and annoyance. If he kept John on the defensive, playing John’s game would be easy. Or so he thought.

John better be prepared for two days of faked angry silences awkward evasions.


	4. Beg for It: Brotherly Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock follows the trail John led to its end: Mycroft.

Two days later, Sherlock sat in a café. He held a paper in front of his eyes, but he had long ago stopped reading it. He simply waited for the man he needed to see. The last few days wore on him. The sexual build up that John weaved that night two days before still existed in Sherlock’s groin. He needed an orgasm. The lack of a climax affected Sherlock like a drug; his mind drudged along like a caveman dragging the carcass of a freshly killed sabretooth tiger back to his family. The pressure continued to build like a snowball rolling down a mountain side. Every comment John made spoke to him on two levels: the first grated his nerves because John had overstepped, but the other wanted to seduce John in order to see if there happened to be a second key because he might just drop to his knees and suck the other man’s cock in order to be able to jack off. That line of thinking brought out a third voice in Sherlock’s head, and it said that John played him extremely well. John had pressed all the right buttons, said the right things, and Sherlock had followed along willingly and willfully blind. He blinked his eyes, slowly, to clear the sludge from his brain. He needed to be on the top of his game because he planned to face one of the most dangerous foes he had ever encountered.

The door of the café opened. Mycroft stood in the entrance. He paused seeing Sherlock at one of the tables, but it only took a moment for him to continue as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Sherlock, equally aware of Mycroft’s arrival, never stirred from his position with the paper. The elder Holmes sat his briefcase beside the table leg on the floor, hooked his umbrella on the back of the chair, and lowered himself into the chair across from his younger brother. Sherlock lowered the newspaper as if he had only just realized that Mycroft had come into his space. The chess game started with the first move and the slap of the chess clock’s button.

“I planned on a quiet lunch,” Mycroft said cheekily.

“I would have let you have one had your assistant not insisted that you could not be disturbed.”

“And, how did you know that I would be here? Or would you like me to guess?”

“There’s no need to guess.”

“Lestrade told you about the incident at the racetracks, then?” Mycroft asked. He looked over his shoulder and waved at the waitress. Her eyes widened seeing him, and she hustled behind the counter to put an order in.

“Who knew a duchess could throw a punch like that?”

“And you made the same connection as I did?”

“Yes, horse betting,” Sherlock conceded.

“Father’s favorite sport,” Mycroft reminisced.

“He never lost,” Sherlock pointed out.

“We,” corrected Mycroft, “never lost.” 

“So, as I was saying, there was no need to guess,” Sherlock stabbed again. Both men glared at each other for a few minutes. The dangerous dance underway, and neither of them wanted to falter. The game they played never ended, and seemingly never began; it always existed between them: which brother reigned supreme in rank of intelligence and wit. The waitress sat down a cup of tea on a saucer. Sherlock finished by adding, “It was logical.” 

“It is always good to see you actually using that brain of yours, brother mine,” Mycroft parried. His head tilted to one side, and a snide grin begged for Sherlock do better.

“For someone that suggests that love is a weakness, you certainly chose a convenient place to have your afternoon tea. One might think you have grown… sentimental,” the younger Holmes said ticking off the last word with every syllable stressed.

“What you confuse for sentimentality, little brother, is simply a logical place to eat. Was it not a logical line of thinking that led you to the conclusion that I would come here?”

“Logical on my end, Mycroft. Let’s not pretend that it was the same for you,” Sherlock countered. He continued, “You felt a compulsion to try to retrieve something locked away from you now.”

“Oh? Is that it?” Mycroft asked, and sipped his tea delightedly.

“You think I’m wrong?”

“No. I just think that I’m not the one coming here to retrieve something.”

Sherlock’s witty remarks stopped cold. His eyes narrowed at his brother. 

“Yes,” Mycroft explained. He patted his chest pocket knowingly, “I suppose you have come here for this.”

“Give it here, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled. He leaned forward, his voice low and his teeth bared.

“Or what?” Mycroft taunted. 

“The note said to hand it over. I read it. Now, give it here.”

“Why do you want it so badly?” 

“It’s none of your business,” Sherlock answered quickly. 

“Ah, but I believe it is. See, I have it in my possession.”

Another silence fell over the table. Sherlock’s pursed lips contended with Mycroft’s amused sneer, but neither seemed able to gain the upper hand. Each of them predicted what the other would say to their comments, entertained ideas of counters, queued ripostes and snide remarks, but the mental battle needed to become verbal in order for a winner to be declared. They both knew that the first person to speak would be the loser, or suspected at least. 

“I simply need to see the envelope for a moment,” Sherlock put forth and hoped that with a short answer he could start the conversation without forfeiting the win. 

“The contents are quite curious,” Mycroft retorted.

“Yes, puzzling no doubt since you don’t know what it pertains to,” Sherlock agreed.

“I do love a good mystery. I haven’t been stumped in a long time, Sherlock.”

“Give me the key, Mycroft. It’s mine.

“That key,” Mycroft drawled, “must have been awfully important for John to have sent it to me.” 

“It’s not all that important to him, no,” Sherlock corrected.

“Oh, really? Well, then, why do you want it so badly?”

“It’s not important to John, it’s important to me. It’s my key, and I would appreciate it if you gave it back to me,” Sherlock whined. 

“Trouble on the home front?” Mycroft gasped. He looked smug, and Sherlock gritted his teeth.

“Your concept of how relationships work is telling, Mycroft,” Sherlock delivered in a devastating blow. Mycroft’s superior smile drained away faster than piss down a toilet. 

“We have discussed this, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. His frown deepened.

“If you were interested in a relationship: find one,” Sherlock continued.  
“Well, I’ve found myself in the midst of yours. So, do tell, why is John secreting a key to me through the mail,” the elder Holmes inquired.

“Our sex life is of no concern to you,” Sherlock blocked.

“Your sex life?”

“Mycroft, no.”

“Now, I am truly curious.”

“I find the fact that you are intrigued by your brother’s sex life to be highly concerning.”

“I could remind you that you are the one that keeps reminding me that I need to ‘get laid’.”

“Truly, it would benefit the state of the realm if you weren’t so uptight.”

“So, this key,” Mycroft pressed.

Sherlock sat quietly for a few moments. He needed to have that key, but Mycroft was the keeper. If he refused to explain the details, his brother would refuse to give the key up. If he refused to give the details, his brother would refuse to give up the key, and possibly try to pry the details from John. There weren’t many options, so the only possible solution was to give half of the truth. 

“John and I decided to try something new. We are role playing. He set up a mystery. My reward for solving the mystery is sexual. Satisfied?”

“No. This key means much more to you than a mystery.”

“You can interpret this any way you would like, but you have to understand that the truth remains what it is.”

“Oh, I’m not interpreting Sherlock. You said this key was more important to you than John. If that’s true then this key is much more than a mystery.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock warned.

“If I had to guess, I would say this key unlocks something much more important than a diary.”

“You really shouldn’t pry,” Sherlock tried again.

“I wouldn’t pry, if you would just talk to me.”

“We tried bondage.” 

A heavy silence fell between them. The waitress stood at the table with a plated sandwich and chips. Her eyes were wide from Sherlock’s admission. He had come clean a little louder than expected. He hated that Mycroft could push his buttons in that manner. She avoided eye contact with both men, sat the plate down, and retreated as quietly and quickly as possible.

“Then, I would assume the key opens…” Mycroft started once she was gone.

“A chastity device. Are you satisfied?”

“Thoroughly,” Mycroft admitted. He shifted in his chair, pulled the envelope, and held it out to Sherlock. 

Sherlock grabbed the envelope. He tore into it, but found only a letter. He looked up at Mycroft, and noticed his brother’s superior grin back on his smug face. He pursed his lips to restrain himself from yelling, but it was a battle that he was hard pressed to win.

“Where is the key, Mycroft?”

“I never received it,” Mycroft said plainly.

“You have the envelope. You must have the key. Where is it?”

“Sadly, the key did not come in the envelope. And I did not know of it until you mentioned it.”

“Give it over, Mycroft. It’s mine,” the detective whined again.

“If I had been given the key, I would not have given it over even if you threatened me. Alas, John did not entrust me with the key. Simply an envelope and a letter arrived this morning. I truly hope that you find your key, though.”

Sherlock stared at the table confused. 

“Would you like someone to give you some insight?”

“You have insight into John’s mind, now?”

“I read his blog,” Mycroft sneered, and Sherlock was left speechless. He feigned not having devoted time to reading John’s ridiculous blog. He could not yet admit that he spent hours poring over the romanticized versions of their cases. So, Sherlock shrugged in an attempt at indifference. 

“How does that tell you anything?” Sherlock asked.

“A few months ago, John wrote about the ‘Dear John,’ Murderer.”

“He seriously named the case that? I warned him that he was being self-gratifying.”

“The case was solved, how? Sherlock?”

“I found imprints using…”Sherlock started and his jaw dropped visibly. Mycroft smiled widely. 

“You solved it using graphite tracing which revealed information that the murderer had inadvertently left on the note left at the murder itself.”

“John…”

“John created a false trail for you to follow.”

Sherlock considered this twist, and several things occurred to him. First, John planned this ahead of time; the plan was premeditated and cunning and executed in military precision. Second, John truly created a mystery. Sherlock never considered John to be a huge fan of the game, but here he had proved himself to be a capable foe. 

“I think I finally see what you see in John. I can read it on your face, right now.”  
Sherlock looked up. The question he wanted to ask clear on his face.

“John still surprises you.”

“That’s true,” Sherlock agreed.

“Is that because he is truly surprising? Or is it because you refuse to try and predict what he might do?”

Sherlock did not have an answer to that, but now it bothered him. 

“Sherlock, brother mine, I truly would like to help settle this issue with you and your…soldier-boy, but I would also like to have my tea. If you are finished?”  
Sherlock dropped the paper on the table, and stood.

“One of these days,” Sherlock started.

“Sherlock, if you try to tell me that one of these days I will find someone I am willing to allow put me in a chastity device, I will disown you.”

“Promise?”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock trod slowly down the street. His mind, as per usual, zipped with ideas, but these were not the normal ponderings. It was not as if he never turned his deductive eye inward, but he tried to do it only rarely. The mixture of John and Mycroft stirred the pot, though. Things in Sherlock’s world were shifting, and he wasn’t sure where they would end up. Mycroft insinuated that he treated John differently, but did he? And John, simple John, demonstrated an insight into Sherlock’s abilities that unnerved and impressed him, but what did that say about Sherlock’s estimation of John? 

As his mind revolved around the idea, looking for connections to make and rabbits to chase, he found himself thinking of Irene. The Woman shocked him the first time they encountered each other by walking into the room naked. He remembered being unable to make any judgements based on her appearance. She presented herself completely, but ultimately the bold introduction revealed nothing. As time went by he learned things about her, but those things never revealed how much she would hurt him in the end. He refused to see how she would change or how she used him. Did John fall into that same type of pattern? John had presented himself honestly, completely, and openly. Sherlock measured him, and found him lacking in mental acuity; most people were, though. Sherlock gauged his bravery and loyalty, and marked them as the defining attributes for their friendship; that and John’s unabashed admiration for Sherlock’s intuitive genius. Also, in all honesty, John’s ability to wade through Sherlock’s constant negativity and judgment unscathed and unmoved. The more Sherlock contemplated John’s position in his life the more he realized that the soldier had infiltrated and occupied vital roles and spaces.  
This, then, led to Mycroft’s intended question: why did he treat John differently? The answer might have been simple. John received different treatment because he wasn’t noticeable. He remained out of Sherlock’s way. He kept quiet during cases, or at least gave more useful useless information unlike Geoff, Donovan, or Anderson. His insights were meant in a manner that were actually meant to be helpful, even if they fell short or came across boring. He tried. He cared. He was ignored easily. He saved lives. He helped people remain whereas Sherlock only helped clear up the mess left behind. Sherlock’s heart ached as he considered his feelings for John because he feigned being ignorant of emotions and emotional attachments. The truth remained that he treated John and Irene differently in his dealings because he cared deeply for them, and his feelings for them scared him more than he could express. Irene hurt him. Would John do the same in the end? John proved already that he could do things far beyond what Sherlock predicted. Irene played his feelings, rode his emotions like a jockey on a horse leading only with the slightest of pressures with the reins. John, not so dramatic, acted like a sniper in the bush; he bided his time and executed the shot with a deadly accuracy. John’s scope range included something far more intimate than Irene ever had experienced. And, to Sherlock’s shock, another parallel occurred to him. Both, John and Irene, appeared within his mind palace nude.

Truly this whole incident, this whole line of thinking, settled upon one distinct fact: John was Sherlock’s lover. The term itself –whether lover, boyfriend, flat mate- did not matter, they slept together which meant Sherlock trusted John more implicitly than anyone else. John was trusted so much that he talked Sherlock into bondage, and, to be completely forthcoming, chastity; even if that chastity had not been agreed upon. Sherlock felt no anger over being locked up, it was exciting. But it begged the question: what else could John get away with before Sherlock got hurt? Irene faked a death, revealed her lesbianism, sold her secrets to Moriarty, but Sherlock still cared for her. John could probably kill Sherlock and Sherlock would not blame him, nor hate him. John even managed to make Sherlock forget that they lived above Missus Hudson when they were having sex, and he could only imagine some of the things she has heard them yell or scream. He shuddered, but then he straightened. His eyes went wide, and then narrowed:

John and Ms. Hudson conversed the night the cock cage locked.

Sherlock stepped to the curb, threw up an arm, and hailed a cab. 

“221 Baker Street.”


	5. Beg for It: The Housekeeper Cleaneth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to interrogate the unflappable Martha Hudson.

He could not believe how daft he had been. Of course John created a false trail; he had to distract the detective from the obvious fact that he had given the key to Ms. Hudson. It seemed so simple. Sherlock overlooked it because it was absurdly artless. Simple John acted simple. Sherlock climbed out of the cab, and stepped out onto the street. He marched to the door, moved the knocker to the right, threw it open, and stormed toward 221 A.

“Missus Hudson!” Sherlock shouted while he pushed the door open to find Ms. Martha Hudson sitting at the table drinking tea and having biscuits. A startled screech occurred, and Sherlock thought he might suffer from tinnitus. He continued to barge into her kitchen; his tall, thin frame stretching in a menacing figure. 

“Sherlock!” Hudson cried when she recovered enough of her senses. She sat the tea cup down, and glanced away; her face heated in a blush. She stood and moved away from the table. She could not seem to look him in the eye –or at all, really, her hand pressed firmly to her lips, and the other hand fidgeted with her apron strings; all signs of someone keeping a secret. Unfortunately for Ms. Hudson, Sherlock knew the secret. She had the key! She threw her hands up, gasped as if she could not believe she had forgotten, then went to the cabinets and started rifling through them for a cup and saucer, “Sherlock, why don’t you sit. I’ll fetch some tea and milk for you.”

“I think we both know, Ms. Hudson, that tea and milk is not the reason I’m here,” Sherlock said darkly. He loved toying with the people he investigated. He sat traps, and allowed them to reveal themselves.

“Nonetheless, Sherlock, dearie, I would like if you took a seat,” Martha said. Her voice quavered in what Sherlock thought might be fear of being found out. She continued, “I’ll get you a cuppa, you just take a seat and get comfortable. I’ll even put a few more biscuits out.”

“Ms. Hudson,” Sherlock warned, but he took a seat anyway. He continued, wryly, “We both know that we need to discuss what happened two nights ago.”

“Oh!” the older woman cried. She pulled her hands back to her mouth, and moved away from Sherlock as if the distance of only a few feet could save her. She moved to the cupboard, opened it, and pushed her head into it.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“Biscuits,” Martha called from inside the cupboard. He could hear her voice quaver still. It took on that annoying undulating staccato between normal and screechy that the woman produced when under pressure of any sort, including tele-marketers. Sherlock waited impatiently, but tried to restrain himself from yelling. He truly did not want to be the cause of Hudson’s heart failure; after all, he did not want to find himself with a new land lord when the current one suited his needs just fine. Finally, the older woman pulled her head out of the cupboard with the biscuits in hand. She sat the package on the counter, then moved back to the cabinet for the teacup.   
“If you are quite finished, Ms. Hudson, you need to come clean. Two nights ago…what happened.”

Martha dropped the teacup. The porcelain cup landed, luckily, on a folded towel without a bounce. She still yelped, which was bad enough, but then one of her hands went to her apron clad stomach and the other went to touch the back of her coiffed hairdo. She touched the flipped hair as if to compose herself.

“I… I don’t know what you mean, dearie.”

“I am not an idiot Ms. Hudson. I heard you. So, what happened?”

“I am so sorry, Sherlock,” Hudson said turning around. She hurried over to the table, plopped herself down in the chair, leaned over her tea, and nearly sobbed, “John visited for just a moment, and I knew he was acting strange. I was just so worried.”

“Yes, John visited. What happened, then?”

“I thought things were just a little too quiet. So, I went upstairs to check on you.”

“You what?”

“And, I found you in your room.”

“No,” Sherlock said a feeling of despair filling his gut. 

“Oh, Sherlock. I had no idea that you were tied up and naked! I had called your name a few times, but you didn’t answer.”

“I was asleep!”

“You were quiet cute,” Martha gushed through her hands. She lifted her head, and looked coyly above the tips of her fingers. Sherlock realized, to his horror, that she seemed to be on a rabbit in order to avoid the rest of the conversation. “So, toned and smooth. For some reason, I always thought you might be a bit more hairy. Does John like that you’re smooth? I bet he does. I wish my ex-husband would have been as hairless as you. Some nights I felt like a cat.”

“Ms. Hudson! Please!”

“But you just said!”

“I thought John had visited you to give you a key,” Sherlock exclaimed.

“A key?” Hudson asked confusedly. Then it hit her and she laughed “You mean for the cage on your cock?” 

“Missus Hudson, please,” Sherlock plead.

“It’s not like I could miss it,” she tittered, and covered her mouth again. She continued in a high pitched squeal of excitement, “It was center stage.”

“I would really rather not talk about this with you,” Sherlock said. His cool demeanor and attitude were gone. She had tilted the tables on him in a way that only she could do. 

“Oh don’t be shy Sherlock. I see why John fancies you so much now.”

“This is hardly appropriate.”

“I didn’t think that you would have agreed to being caged, though,” Martha said. She raised a hand to her mouth as she considered the implications.

“I didn’t agree to that. I agreed to be tied up,” Sherlock admitted, and then he roared, “WHY AM I DISCUSSING THIS WITH YOU?”

“Sherlock, you keep your voice down. You are in my apartment, not yours.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair. He looked at the table apologetically, then nodded his head in a sort of apology. He said lowly, “I do apologize.”

“Are you saying that John put that cage on you without your saying so?”

“Well, I didn’t have hands to fight him off with, as you could well see.”

“I am going to have a long chat with that boy. He seems like such a sweet thing, but to break the rules like that.”

“Ms. Hudson, what are you talking about?”

“The rules of BDSM, Sherlock. You don’t do something like that without talking it over before. If I had ever done that to my late husband, he would have divorced me.”  
“You wanted divorced from him. Wait, are you suggesting that you and…” Sherlock started, but then he realized what he was asking. He stopped and nearly gagged.  
“Well, that was later. When we first got married, we were quite adventurous. I even owned a few strap on dil-” Martha explained, but Sherlock stopped her.

“That’s quite enough. I think tea is strong enough for me, thank you.”

“Oh, right,” Ms. Hudson stood and went back to the dropped tea cup.

“So, John didn’t give you a key when he stopped to see you?”

“No, Sherlock. He told me that I shouldn’t worry about bringing you an evening cuppa. But, we both know how that turned out. If he had given me a key, I would have returned it. John shouldn’t break the rules like that.”

“Thank you, Ms. Hudson. I think I should be going now.”

“You don’t want any tea, dear?”

“No, thank you, but I fear my appetite is spoiled.”

“It should be. Downright disgraceful, what he did.”

Sherlock fled the room, and went upstairs to delete the memories of Hudson’s escapades from his memories.

*****************************************

Sherlock trudged to his chair. He wanted to curse John, but when he plopped into the seat he laughed; not a light laugh of hopelessness, but a true, deep laugh of mirth and joy. He didn’t know everything that John had planned out, and that made it all the better. Had John planned on the devastatingly aggravating conversation with Mycroft? The possibility stood that John knew Mycroft would act as Mycroft always acted –as a man of intrigue- to the point where Sherlock would be forced to reveal more than he wanted. Then, in a twist of awkwardness, the conversation with Ms. Hudson happened. Sherlock shuddered. That woman knew no bounds. Had John planned that too? Was that part of the false trail laid by the devious doctor? Or had it simply been an unfortunate accident on the detective’s part? How long had John been planning this out? 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He rewound the days until the unfortunate caging ran through his head. His eyes flickered back and forth behind his eyelids as if in REM, but he was far from sleep. He played John’s exit from the bedroom again, but nothing new popped out at him. Then it hit him. John exited the room three times. Once to grab the bag of restraints, the third time was to create the false trail, but the second time had been to give Sherlock time to calm down. He rewound to the second time John left, and then played the memory in his mind like a cinema. John left. Sherlock strained his ears. He listened for what felt like an eternity, but in reality was only ten minutes or so. He heard a drawer open and close moments later; a distant drawer, so one in the kitchen. Sherlock bolted from the chair to the kitchen, his slick shoes slid under him when he tried to stop too quickly. He pulled drawer after drawer until he found something that stood out: a receipt to a specialty shop in a drawer of miscellaneous items. He withdrew the receipt and devoured the information. It was dated 5 days prior. Sherlock knew instantly that it coincided with the day he had finished without John. The conversation with mind-palace John played in his head again. He shook his head because he understood. John reacted to Sherlock’s insensitivity as he always did.

He stood with the receipt in hand and frowned. John and Irene appeared in his head, naked, revealed, and open. He had compared John to Irene earlier on his walk, and he realized it was unfair. It all fell to the idea of revelation. Irene, in her push for power into Sherlock’s life, burned her image into his brain. John, on the other hand, lost his protections piece by piece. John and Irene held little in common other than their esteem in Sherlock’s eyes. Irene preyed upon Sherlock’s arrogance and intelligence. She enticed him, and pushed him to act. She wound him up tighter and tighter. She was finger on the trigger, and she wanted him to self-destruct like a bullet to the brain. If she were the trigger finger, John was the safety. He checked Sherlock. When the detective pushed too hard or snapped out an angry retort, John stood by ready to step in and smooth things over. He uncoiled the detective. Before Sherlock met John and Irene, he walked a fine line between control and total chaos. John soothed his wild streak, but then Irene entered the picture and turned everything topsy-turvy. Then, in a culmination of her frenzied stint in his life, she disappeared and left him off-balance; ready to topple. The only reason he remained upright was John. 

Sherlock wondered, briefly, if he impacted John a fraction as much as John impacted him, but that thought slipped rapidly from his consciousness. He could not handle considering that question right now. Nor would he ever feel like he could answer it. He knew the answer floated just beyond his understanding, and it would forever taunt him like a slippery fish in the clear shallow water of a pond. However, there stood a comforting thought. If Sherlock felt this vulnerable to John –a trustworthy, honest, decent man-, then John might feel just as bare to the detective as he appeared within the mind palace. He dropped that thought though; instead he would tackle the tangible. 

The receipt pointed to premeditation. John planned everything in advance for this. He simply waited for Sherlock to initiate which meant that he kept the key until he knew that Sherlock wanted sex. He had kept the key on him, probably in his wallet so he would not lose it, and then gave it to someone he trusted. Sherlock pulled out his phone. He navigated to the messenger, and glanced at the time stamp on his messages to John two days ago. The doctor had been at work, probably with a patient.

“Oh, you stupid…” Sherlock mumbled about himself and spun in a circle on the floor. He never even considered that John would leave the key with someone outside of their circle of contacts, but it would have been the safest place because the detective would have immediately went to the inner circle. Sherlock stopped spinning, slipped his phone into his pocket, and raced over to the computer. He pulled up the clinic’s webpage, slid the mouse to the employee tab, and pulled up the email. He used John’s credentials –which he had found out weeks ago, accidentally- to log in, and clicked around until he looked at the employment schedule. Sherlock knew that John would never trust Jackie with the key because of her reactions to Sherlock. The other nurses, though nice enough, were not responsible enough, nor were they scheduled regularly. It needed to be someone that John had reliable access to, but would be unassuming enough to stay under Sherlock’s radar.

“You cheeky,” Sherlock started because an idea struck him. There were two types of schedules employee and patient. Sherlock clicked on the patient schedule and glanced over the details. One name popped up like clockwork, and even appeared on the day –and at the exact time- that Sherlock had messaged the doctor: Mr. D. Fenton. John stashed the key with the man, knowing that they would have regular contact. Sherlock glanced at the schedule again, and pulled out his phone. He needed to text John. His long, slender fingers, typed out a message, and then hit send.


	6. Beg for It: My Husbands Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old man Fenton is back in the Doc's office, just in time for Sherlock's surprising text.
> 
> It's almost over!! I've just one more post to make!

John’s phone buzzed as he finished up his notes on his last patient. Mr. Fenton had left the room moments before. The old man seemed in much higher spirits than he had five days before, and his wife accompanied him which gave John hope that they weren’t raising their blood pressure too high from fighting. He sighed, rolled his eyes to the heavens, and pulled out his phone. He tapped the message icon. From Sherlock:

_John, please. Can you remove this now?_

He stared at his phone in bewilderment. Sherlock asked him to remove the cage. The text read simply, but it’s meaning –at least to John- weighed heavily. He never thought he would see the day that Sherlock would give up and ask for the cage to be removed. He sat in shock. The doctor figured that it would be another week before Sherlock would give up, but, then again, he had also figured that Sherlock would have solved the mystery by the afternoon of the first day. Sherlock seemed to ignore the false trail that John set up by rummaging around the desk, and the fake letter. John wondered how he had seen through it, but it didn’t matter. The fact remained Sherlock asked for it to be removed. Normal folk would never consider that simple phrase to be anything more than a plea, but for Sherlock this was as close to begging as the prideful man would ever get. Sherlock forfeited. John needed to go get the key back, and then he realized that the key was with Mr. Fenton; the same man that had just left his office.

“Mr. Fenton!” John hollered and sprinted from his office looking for the old man. He passed Jackie as he hustled down the hall toward the waiting room. He pushed through the door, and saw Mr. Fenton holding the door for Mrs. Fenton to pass through; the feeble armed man looked like he might lose his grip on the door at any moment and knock his wife over. He called again, “Mr. Fenton, could I have a word!”

The old man turned his rheumy blue eyes back to see Dr. Watson moving toward him. He barked out to his wife to let her know that he needed to wait for a minute, “Liza!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fenton, but I was wondering if you still had that key on you?” John asked.

“Key?” the old man asked his eyes squinted and the wrinkles around his temple nearly swallowed them up completely. The expression read that he remembered nothing of the conversation they had about holding onto the little key. 

“Yes, key. Mr. Fenton, I gave you a key 3 days ago during your appointment, and I asked if you could keep a watch on it for me; one soldier to another.”

“Oh? I don’t…” the older man started, scratching his head. Liza, the old man’s wife, poked her head back through the door. She was a tiny woman in stature, but not in girth. She looked like a woman that had loved well, eaten well, and never passed a chance to enjoy something free. Her short haired permed up into a small afro-like up do that reeked of hairspray. 

“Are you flirtin’ with the nurses again you old badger!?” she called before she noticed John, then she coughed an apology and said, “’Verythin’ alright, Dr. Watson?”

“He asked me about a key, dear, but I don’t remember a key.”

“Oh, David, I tol’ you that key was important,” Liza cried. 

“You did?” Mr. Fenton said and sounded truly surprised. He let out a breathy laugh and a smile crossed his face raising the wrinkles all around. “You see, she keeps me straight.”

“Did you bring the key with you, sir?” John tried again.

“Oh? Uh… No,” the old man said. He patted the pockets of his too big pants, and then added, “I don’t think so.”  
The old man offered another breathy laugh. John sighed. His wife groaned loudly.

“Yes you did, it’s’n your breast pocket. You refused to take it out. Ya said it was important,” she complained. 

Mr. Fenton reached up -his bushy eyebrows nearly disappearing into his wispy white hair, pushed his stubby fingers into his breast pocket, but Mrs. Fenton grew impatient. She stepped back into the clinic and started fussing with her husband who growled out an, “I’m getting it.” Together they succeeded in pulling the key from the shirt pocket, and Mr. Fenton handed it over.

“Thank you, sir, for holding on to this for me,” John said. He grabbed the key from the proffered hand. 

“Any time,” the old man replied with a bright smile.

“Nex’ time ask me. I’ll make sure ‘e don’t lose it,” Liza Fenton added.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John replied with a smile. He put the key into his pocket, pulled out his cell, and text Sherlock back.

“I didn’t lose it, Liza,” the old man howled in a fit of indignant anger.

“No, but ya sure did try,” his heckling wife replied with vinegar. 

The text read: _Depends on how good you’ll be tonight._


	7. Beg for It: Uncaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, after hearing Sherlock's plea, returns home.

“What did you tell Missus Hudson?” John asked as he shut the door to the apartment; his face flushed and his ears ringing.

“Nothing? Why?” Sherlock replied.

“She just trapped me down stairs. She knew that you had been tied up.”

“How did she know that?”

“Well, I didn’t tell her Sherlock. You’re the detective, who does that leave?”

“Mycroft?”

“Why would Mycroft tell her that you had been tied up? How would he even know?”

“I went to see him today for the key. He didn’t have it, turns out.”

“You actually thought Mycroft had it?” John laughed, but the question still stood, “Why would he have talked to Martha about it?”

“Hmm, I may have had a conversation with her earlier. I can’t quite seem to recall what it was about.”

“She chewed my ears about locking you in a chastity cage without your permission,” John griped, “then, she told me about her experiences with BDSM.”

“That could be why I don’t remember it,” Sherlock said under his breath as John continued on with his tirade.

“I never wanted to know that she liked getting tied up, Sherlock. This has to be your fault.”

“It sounds to me, dear Watson, that it is your fault.”

“How,” John stammered, “could it, possibly, be my fault?”

“You did lock me in a chastity device without my consent.”

“Well, I…” started John, but his steam ran dry. He stammered for a few minutes until Sherlock stopped him.

“I’m not mad at you John, though next time I would appreciate warning,” the detective said. 

“You aren’t mad?” John asked incredulously. He prepared himself for some screaming or yelling, but not for acceptance. He pressed, “You aren’t having a laugh, are you?”

“Not in the slightest. I have found chastity, at least a couple of days of it, to be very liberating.”

“We could leave it on a few more days,” John started, but Sherlock quickly cut him off.

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Sherlock retorted. He stood from his chair and moved across the room to meet John. He continued by saying, “Let’s go ahead and remove it.” 

Then, suddenly, Sherlock and John were interlocked. Their lips met, and they swayed back and forth enjoying the warmth of each other’s embrace. John pulled away.

“When did you solve it?” John asked with his hands planted firmly on Sherlock’s hips.

“I never solved it,” Sherlock said quietly. He looked away from John. He couldn’t look into the dark eyes of the soldier without giving himself away, but he tried to play it off as if he were embarrassed by admitting defeat.

“You messaged me right before he walked out of the building,” John said. Sherlock tried to look innocent, but couldn’t keep the glint from his eyes.

“I guess I didn’t play that out as well as I should have,” Sherlock replied.

“So?”

“Just moments before I text you,” Sherlock admitted, then added, “It would have been sooner, but I had to hack into your clinic account.”

John kissed Sherlock again, then pulled back a second time. He asked, “And why lie?”  
Sherlock grinned, leaned in, and kissed John. They fumbled and pawed at each other’s clothes as they moved slowly, awkwardly, inexorably toward the bedroom in between kisses and fondling. John stumbled back when his heels hit the edge of the bed. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and looked up at Sherlock. The slender man’s shirt was gone, and his slacks were bunched around his knees. John reached up, and pulled at Sherlock’s pants. 

“Take them off, John, but leave the cage for now,” Sherlock hissed.

“You’re serious?” John asked, and the other man nodded. 

John ran his rough fingers up Sherlock’s legs and hips, wrapped his fingers into the band of the detective’s tight, dark pants, and pulled them down to expose his caged cock and ass. John’s hands circled back to fondle the creamy, pert ass and he leaned forward to rub his scruffy face over and around the metal cage; his lips caressed and kissed the lean abdomen of his lover. Using his feet, John pushed Sherlock’s pants and slacks down while the thinner man fumbled to pull his twig-like legs from the mass of fabric. Once freed from his clothes, Sherlock set about removing John’s garb; one piece at a time.

Sherlock’s inquisitive gaze feasted on John’s torso when it was exposed. The once ripped and hard body still looked amazing even with the thin layer of fat from inactivity obscuring the view. He ran his long slender fingers through the patch of fine sandy blond hairs on John’s chest. Then he pushed John back to lean on his elbows, while he set about undoing the doctor’s khakis. John’s briefs tented in anticipation. Sherlock, when he looked at it, could not help feel a little jealous when his own dick lay trapped in a cage. The cold steel dug into his member, but he ignored the pain as much as possible. This was about John; about proving that for once he could put someone before himself. Sherlock wrapped his thin lips around John’s hard cock with the thin cotton briefs between them. Within seconds the material was wet from a mixture of John’s leaking juice and Sherlock’s saliva.   
They climbed onto the bed, and Sherlock pulled out lube from under the pillows. He pushed it down the bed to give John easy access to it. John shook his head though. He pulled Sherlock back, and he took up the position at the head of the bed. 

“Sherlock, why don’t you use the restraints on me?” John asked. Sherlock paused only long enough to see if John were serious or not, and then the restraints were on. John’s arms stretched out to either side with a battery of pillows to give support to keep him comfortable. Sherlock straddled John’s lap. He felt John’s hot cock resting under his ass, and he kissed the doctor, ground his hips, and used his thin hands to tweak peaked nipples. Sherlock reached back, grabbed the lube, and returned to his position to grind on top of John’s throbbing dick. He squirted some of the oil onto his hand, and reached down to stroke his lover. He teased, slicked, and taunted John who leaned forward and latched his lips and tongue to Sherlock’s chest. When Sherlock knew that John was ready, he lifted himself up, poised the stiff cock under himself, and lowered slowly until John sat buried deep within him.   
They sat for a moment with John enjoying the tight warmth of his partner, and Sherlock in his lap adjusting to the girth. Slowly, little by little, Sherlock raised himself until he released almost all of John. Then, lowered himself in the same slow meter back to rest. Sherlock repeated this over and over, gaining speed with every cycle until he nearly bounced with the movement; his own caged member leaking buckets over John’s abdomen. John’s head tossed back; his moans and groans filled the air to join Sherlock’s panting breath. Then, with a grunt and sigh, John released his load deep into his lover’s body. They sat for a moment resting; John’s hard cock slowly softening. Then, Sherlock pushed himself up. John’s dick coming out with a pop. Moments later, Sherlock freed his own cock. 

He climbed up on the bed, walked the cushion, and lined his instantly hard and instantly needy cock with John’s face. John eagerly took Sherlock into his mouth. His tongue darted back and forth, and then Sherlock took charge again. He took up a slow rhythm to allow John time to adjust, but within a minute Sherlock facefucked John with a determined pace. From John’s perspective he could see Sherlock’s balls tightening, could hear the hitch in the man’s breath, and the jump in his throat as the detective hit his orgasm without a sound. John sucked and swallowed, and waited for his lover to finish. 

 

A few minutes later Sherlock sank to the bed, undid the restraints with an ease that suggested practice, and pulled John close. As they lay, side by side, their breathing synced and their bodies sated, Sherlock talked into John’s ear.

“I was thinking earlier,” Sherlock started, and John laughed.

“Imagine that.”

“I was thinking about you, and how you keep surprising me.”

“I surprise you?” John asked and he glowed with the praise Sherlock did not even realize he had paid.

“Every day,” Sherlock responded. 

“Why do you say that?” John asked.

“Because you love me when most everyone else just uses me,” Sherlock answered. His voice was low in John’s ears. The words sounded as if they had to travel through syrup to leave the detective’s mouth.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. He wanted to turn around and wrap his arms around the other man’s body, but Sherlock held him firm.

“Listen, John, just listen.”

“Okay,” John said. Tears swam in his dark brown eyes.

“You are what makes me special, John,” and a tear fell down John’s cheek. Sherlock continued, “Without you, I’d be some psychopath that no one liked.”

“You’re a high functioning sociopath,” John corrected.

“I love you too, John,” Sherlock purred into John’s ear, then asked with a levity that nearly showed excitement, “Can we do the cage again sometime?” 

“Why?”

“It helped me see things more clearly,” came the easy answer when he considered the reflections he had made on their relationship.

“Only if you beg for it.”


End file.
